Obituaries
by The Hallowed Cat
Summary: Sirius had kissed him good morning and then goodbye. RLSB slash


The third floorboard on the right side of the bed had creaked in a comforting way when Sirius trod upon it, intent on making a quiet getaway to work. Remus had opened one eye and smiled at him, warm and content in the bed they shared, and Sirius had kissed him good morning and then goodbye.

Remus lay in bed, between dreamlessness and waking, listening to the quiet growl of the motorbike start and speed up; petering out into silence as it sped along the road and then disappeared around the corner. Later he got up and made breakfast, washed and dressed and walked to the bus stop.

The day was depressingly cold, the skyline a numbing grey that threatened rain and Remus stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and stomped the last few metres trying to return feeling to his toes.

It was at the bus stop he first noticed something was wrong.

Two police cars whirled by in quick succession; chasing each other down the narrow lane and disappearing around the corner. Remus craned his neck and took a step back, curiosity prevailing, and attempted to see around the corner. A cluster of trees and the tiny thatched-roof pub that was the village local obscured his view but the blinking of blue lights and the noisy caterwauling of sirens were still in the forefront of his mind when the bus drew into its stop.

He got in; paid for his return ticket and took his favoured seat – two behind the driver, next to the window with his bag in his lap, chin in palm, looking out the window listlessly. An ambulance rushed past; last in the race, and the bus took another route into the city.

Remus went to the library; he pored over the books, eyes coveting their words and when he re-shelved them his hands lingered, lightly, upon their spines – the fleeting touch of a lover. He went to the supermarket – bought chicken and vegetables for that night's dinner and took the bus home.

Mrs Ledsham from the post office had been into the city to visit her sister and she sat behind Remus, chatting to her friend. It was from her that Remus learnt exactly what was wrong.

"Yes," she was saying – her tone the stage whisper employed by all gossips. "A young man came off his bike this morning, went right under a car. It was a new bike apparently and he wasn't very good on it."

"My goodness." Said her friend as Remus stiffened and his hands tightened in the cool polyester of his bag.

"A local lad according to the grapevine, they took him off to hospital, but Joan at the pub saw him – she says there wasn't much they could have done for the poor sod."

Remus dropped his bag on the floor and turned to her, leaning across the seat.

"Excuse me," he said, trying to keep the panic from his voice. "Do they know his name? The man on the bike?"

Mrs Ladsham shook her head and Remus bit his lip, frowning softly.

"Sirius…" he said, searching her sad face for any clues.

"I'm sure it's not your friend, dear." Mrs Ladsham said kindly, placing her hand on his and giving it a little squeeze.

They arrived home a little before three and Remus refused the offer of a cup of tea 'to calm his nerves' from Mrs Ladsham and hurried home. The gate squeaked as he pushed it open, the familiar sound now taunting and he fumbled with his keys at the lock – breathing a sigh of relief when the door opened and then frowning again at the empty room.

He left his bag by the front door and made himself a cup of tea; Sirius wouldn't be home till five; he was frightening himself over nothing.

He had chocolate digestives with his tea, half the packet.

He read the muggle-newspaper and then The Daily Prophet from front cover to back page; he stayed away from the obituaries. Muggle newspapers wouldn't say anything but wizarding newspapers would have found out by now and Sirius was a Black, if his fear were concrete then Remus didn't want to find out from a small box of type that would regulate Sirius's life to a few lines of deprecation about his family-struggles and his rebellion.

Sirius had been more than that; he had been a living, breathing, effervescent person that Remus had loved.

He made dinner, roast chicken with new potatoes and butter, and admonished himself to stopping thinking of Sirius as if he wasn't there anymore, as if he wasn't alive.

Five came and went and dinner grew cold and Remus could not drag his eyes away from the clock – from watching the tiny, ticking hands that stole away his hope with every second.

Eventually he fell asleep; the dinner still uneaten in front of him; The Daily Prophet lying open from where it had slipped from his hold, obituaries page glaring up at him.

Sirius came home at nine; hair plastered by sweat to his forehead and clothes clinging to him and surveyed the kitchen with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He cleaned away the plates and picked up the newspaper, throwing it in the bin as an after thought when he'd finished with the sports pages. He made a cup of tea and woke Remus.

"Sorry I'm late." He said. "Work was hectic and then the road was closed. There was an accident."

Remus looked up at him through bleary, sleep filled eyes and laughed.

"I know." He said and then he reached out and caught Sirius by the back of the head, pulling him closer and kissing him urgently. Sirius returned the kiss, sinking to his knees and wrapping his arms around Remus's waist – holding him tightly while Remus smoothed his hair with one hand.

"I thought it was you." He said quietly in the silence after they parted.

Sirius shook his head.

"Not me, I wouldn't be that stupid."

"It was an accident."

"He took the corner too fast; I know how to ride my bike."

"I thought it was you." Remus said again and kissed Sirius before he could respond.

They made love on the kitchen floor, a little desperate and a little angry – butter, and faint, comforting words easing the way and Remus bit his lip to stifle a sob when he came, fingers clenched into Sirius's back, holding him as close as possible.

The morning after there were bruises, finger pad sized etches, in Sirius's skin, both a remembrance and a ward; crude, pagan markings that burnt a vibrant purple flame upon Sirius's pale, moon-kissed skin.

Remus lay in bed watching him dress; watched him cover them with shirt and tie and felt a thrill –a warm jolt of something akin to arousal – settle in his bones. It was in many ways the most simplistic of beliefs and in others a most potent magic; a charm on Sirius's skin to protect him from the bike and the road and the world.

It was old magic, dug deep into the bones and mixed with the blood, but it was strong.


End file.
